Reunion
by Verna-S
Summary: Sometimes the most bittersweet thing is looking back and wondering what could have been. HiruMamo. Mature themes.
1. Chapter 1

The cellphone buzzed incessantly. It had been doing that from the moment she'd landed. The woman looked around with an air of pretended disinterest, saw the ads splashed across the entrance as she marched through the hallway marked ARRIVALS, and cursed under her breath. She began to wonder why she'd come. Sexist commercialism was irritating enough, but it was worse when the ads belonged to the enemy. Her products never did have the clout to tackle this part of Asia, and the defeat of her brand name in her own former homeland vexed her. Besides, with the recent layoffs happening in her department, she didn't have the time to be taking a trip just now. Of course, there was never time to do anything. She'd managed to get some stuff out of the way during her flight of course, but that was nothing. At the end of the day, this was still a real inconvenience. It was simply the wrong time of year to be making this sort of trip. Granted, she virtually never took her vacation days and her secretary had almost fainted from surprise when she'd asked the poor girl to clear her schedule for an entire week and three days. Upon reflection, it could be that Maria had participated in the betting pool, in which case, it was her fault for gambling on when the Vice-President of the company would next take a day off in the first place. It would have to be looked into. People should really realize there was software that allowed one to read one's employees' emails. Honestly, it was in the fine print of their contracts, but experienced employees never looked closely when they signed anything. The phone stopped vibrating. There was a long beep that signified a voice message was being recorded. And then as abruptly as it had stopped, the noise and sensation that came with it began again. 

The recipient reached into the pocket of her dark grey power suit and flipped it open. It was a practiced motion--fluid, automatic. But her lips curled with a sardonic expression. "This is me. And you are?"

"YAAAA! Guess who!?!"

Funny how voice patterns never changed in some people. The businesswoman smiled against the pounding headache that came with this sudden auditory intrusion. The babble was incessant. Her stomach rumbled uncomfortably, perhaps in protest to the awful airline food she'd sampled on the way over. She could have gone first-class, but without being able to write it off, it hadn't seemed economical. "Hey."

"So are you going? _Tell_ me you're going."

"I guess. I mean, I'm here, aren't I?" The woman sighed, reached behind her neck, and jabbed at a throbbing kink in her shoulder with French-manicured fingers. "How do you always talk me into doing these things?"

"_WHAT_ things? I never see you! It's been five years at least."

The aging former redhead--it was all grey now--did some quick mental calculations and grimaced ruefully at her passing reflection. Tokyo was as dirty and crowded as ever, but the people seemed younger. Happier. Shriller. "Has it?" She realized dimly that the store she was peering into was a duty-free jeweler's. She smirked at the assortment of cut-glass 'diamonds' on display, and quashed the surge of jealousy she felt seeing a rapturous twenty-something-year-old couple soliciting the attention of the clerk behind the counter inside. Ah, to be young and to think you were in love. Had she really been like that, once?

"YES. Besides, aren't you curious about how everyone has turned out?! And we TOTALLY have to catch up. We can leave early if things get weird. But I don't think they will be. I mean, things should be totally cool. And you can stay at my place tonight if you want. It's all going to be great, I promise."

"You promise, hn?" Mamori didn't believe in promises. And what was she now? A divorced woman with children who were grown and bills that wouldn't allow her to retire. Or perhaps that was a lie. She had enough to retire comfortably, by now--but work was all that kept her going. She couldn't stop; work was her life. Besides, what would she do with her time otherwise? Her existence from the point of entering the job market had been one up-hill struggle after another--from the moment she'd decided that she wanted to go into marketing instead of nursing school, the world of commercial gain had split before her in splinters that had to be pried open with a combination of Japanese business ethic and ineffable female charm. Of course, the detritus of an ambitious life was not always necessarily pleasant. The moment she got home to her empty apartment was inevitably followed by the moment of discovery that there wasn't anything on television worth watching, and nothing in her inbox or phone log worth pursuing besides aggravated customers angling for a better deal, an annoyingly codependent soon-to-be-ex-husband who didn't want to finalize the divorce, and a pair of creatures who apparently were her children and required loans now and again. Maybe she'd used up all of her mothering instincts and tenderness on Sena all those years ago. Who knew? But life had ironically made Mamori into a rather disinterested and _laissez-faire_ sort of parent. She was certain her old high school acquaintances would have been shocked. But things were different in America. Kids rebelled young and liked to be left alone.

Hell, _she_ was alone. Maybe that was the reason the sound of Suzuna's nostalgically teenaged ineloquence almost brought her to tears. They agreed to meet at an American Burger outlet just a block from the airport.

"Oh, and my stupid brother will be coming. I'm sorry about that."

"Who?"

"My brother. You know, the idiot?"

So Suzuna's brother lived with her? Mamori was caught between dreading her stay and looking forward to it. At least she'd be getting a show with her dinner. "Just don't listen to him if he tries to give you directions," she suggested, lowering her voice as she did so.

She shouldn't have bothered. The reception crackled, and suddenly, Mamori was conscious of a third person on the line. "Ah-_HAH_-hah! Anezaki-san! You forget that I am a master of geographical distinction! I could draw a map of Tokyo from memory, and it would be more perfect than any pamphlet you could find in the office of central tourism!"

"I apologize, Taki-kun," Mamori observed dryly. She didn't correct the use of her unmarried name. She would be returning to it soon enough. As far as her treatment of the guy went, she figured the man was old enough that patronizing him wouldn't be doing Suzuna's brother any favours. "I still remember the boy that managed to misdirect the Shuuhei Elephants, and who led Sena onto the wrong bus and had him miss half of a game."

"Ahhh! IMPOSSIBLE! You must be thinking of someone else!"

"_Nagano Hot Springs_ ringing any bells?" Mamori continued, before she realized she was being cruel. She rubbed her forehead. "I apologize, Taki-kun. It's been a long flight."

"Ah-HAH-hah! Don't you worry about a thing! We will be there as soon as possible! Isn't that right, _my SISTER?_"

"Yaaa! Don't you move, Mamori! And try not to fill up on junkfood! We'll cook for you tonight, okay?"

Mamori's stomach rumbled. She considered telling them that it was fine, that she'd just have a Big Mac or something. But then she thought about the way that greasy burger would taste, and her intestines clenched in premeditated protest. "I'll just have a milkshake."

"Yaaa! We'll see you soon!"

Mamori flicked the phone shut, and switched it to mp-something mode. Most of the songs she had were classical, but there were a handful of pop songs on there as well--a guilty pleasure. She switched to that particular playlist and headed towards the baggage claim area listed on the gigantic monitor that hovered chunkily in the centre of the Arrivals bay. Mamori bit the inside of her cheek, and stole another glance at the slab of levitating metal. Call her old fashioned, but items that large without fixtures holding them in place made her apprehensive. Maybe it was just that she was old, and couldn't handle change. She should fix that. You couldn't stay on top in the business world if you didn't embrace new technology. It was a sure way to fall behind.

She waited and waited, and approached the belt once or twice, but the luggage that she thought looked like hers never was. Half an hour passed, and she began to wonder if she was at the right station. She consulted an attendant, who referred her to the readout on the monitor. It was the right number: belt 63. Eventually the man told her that all of the luggage had been unloaded, and suggested she visit her airline's information centre and fill out a form for misdirected checked baggage.

Mamori clenched her fists and did as she was told. The line was long, of course. When she reached the representative she didn't hold back. The boy stammered, and looked quite put out. It amused her. People in this country didn't know how to handle an angry girl. It gave women like her an edge.

Later, as she checked the time and sat nursing her strawberry milkshake, Mamori reflected that she'd changed a lot from the person she had been at sixteen. She was still driven and organized and hungry for achievement, but her ideals and protective streak had been squashed by a sort of emptiness... maybe even loneliness that she'd felt after the end of all that business during her second year. After the Christmas Bowl, there hadn't been anything. Third year had been so awkward, and such a letdown after that insane comraderie and excitement that came with club activities. It almost frightened her to go back now, and see all of those people again. It would be like savouring the aftertaste of a meal that had gone stale before she'd sampled the parts she'd always wanted to try out. So many deep friendships that she'd allowed to fade into vague acquaintances. So many people that she'd cared about that had become estranged to her. And then, there was...

...well. That person probably wouldn't go to this kind of thing. It just wasn't stylish. Too pathetic, she reasoned. And yet, a sharp thrill went through her all the same.

But what was she now? A stranger to those bright days of glory long past. Mamori rose suddenly, abandoned her milkshake, and went to take a piss. The state of the bathroom was deplorable, but she washed her hands at the dirty sink anyway, and let herself look at the person in the mirror. She lamented once more at her generosity in giving herself up to be a model for her son's latest vocational ambition--hairstyling. It would be too much of a giveaway for her to sport auburn tresses at her age, so she'd gone for black. But then the boy had insisted on bleaching a sizeable chunk just off to the side, and colouring the sizable streak brown with orange highlights "to add a little drama." And of course, she'd reluctantly submitted. The colour had been semi-permanent, however, and was almost rinsed out while the black remained--giving her the look of a lopsided skunk. A radioactive skunk with fluorescent orange undertones showing beneath the strands of white, making her look like a stereotypical Disney villain. She wondered if perhaps she should bother trying to fix it before she went to that thing she'd come for. Or maybe she should leave it. That way people wouldn't feel so bad when she told them what she did for a living. But she definitely needed to have something done before her next business meeting, whenever that was.

Worst of all, she could see some grey roots coming in at the top. Ugh. Being a woman and looking professional was such a pain, but it was necessary. Being the good mother to a desperately closeted son enrolled in a criminally expensive glorified beauty school wasn't as imperative, but she supposed she had some guilt when it came to dealing with the boy. Mamori inspected her nails as she scrubbed her hands. At least those looked nice. The kid was good at something, at least. She sighed and ran them under the lukewarm tap water.


	2. Chapter 2

Mamori checked the time displayed on her cellphone. 8:45. She had been waiting for a little over two hours now, not counting the time she'd spent in the line to file her missing baggage claim. Taking a cab would have been faster, she realized. But it would also have been rude. And her friend was letting her stay for free. Some ruthless part of her calculated that at least the time she lost standing around without being productive could be counted against the money she would have spent putting herself up at a hotel. What an awful way to think, she reprimanded herself. And yet, that was how you _had _to think, when you were in management for a living.

She'd played with the idea of opening up her laptop in this place but there weren't any wireless network signs around and an old lady like her could be seen as easy pickings in a dingy place like this. Better to keep her briefcase shut if she knew what was good for her--and she did.

She'd been listening to her mp3s for some time--or mp7s, or whatever they were these days. Mamori really couldn't remember what number the files were up to, now. In her mind, they were still mp3s. In all honesty, she plugged the thing into her computer, it downloaded songs, and then she promptly forgot about it. (Maybe it was mp6 right now. That sounded right. Familiar.) Her eardrums were starting to complain, however, so Mamori pulled the ear-buds loose and wrapped the cord around the device with stiff arm motions. She reached around to knead her shoulder again, pinching the sore muscles with as much pressure as her fingers could afford. Her back really was killing her.

Suddenly, she became aware of raised voices issuing from across the room. She jerked her head up to observe the source of the noise. Some kind of commotion was breaking out between the unfortunate pimply cashier and a customer. Mamori raised a hand to her mouth and yawned. Maybe once upon a time she would have marched up there, demanded to know what was wrong, and helped that kid out. But these days she was just tired. Let people fight their own battles, get their aggression of their systems. They would just fight again later if she interfered anyway. Better to just let people take care of themselves--or not, as the case might be.

She winced a little when the screechy customer took out a gun. Okay. Now people were hitting the floor. It was getting personal. Mamori rose mechanically from her seat and started to crouch. _So this is how I'm going to die,_ she thought irrationally. _I'd always thought it would be something like this._ Her heart was beating fast. She was witnessing a crime. She had to call the police, or get out of there, no, stay still on the floor--

"YAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAA!!!!!!!!!!!!!" An elderly woman on roller blades crashed into the plexiglass entrance to American Burger, and promptly fell backwards and landed on her butt. It was enough to startle and distract the would-be robber. Another customer rose from the ground, broke into a run and tackled the guy head-first. The gun went off. The good Samaritan held the guy down and smashed his head into the robber's gut. The weapon skidded across the floor and some bystanders came to help. The cashier rose, babbling about calling the police.

Suzuna skated in casually, oblivious to the entire thing. Her brother followed, stopped, snapped his leg up into the air with an arthritic wince, and _pirouetted_ with considerably less speed than he'd had in his younger years, but no less grace. Granted, to have that much flexibility at his age was still fairly impressive. And he'd aged terribly well, Mamori had to admit. The germ of temptation seeded her imagination, but she shrugged it off. Divorce or no divorce, she could never live an affair like that down. And just think of what Suzuna would say! Still. She was married, not dead.

"Ah-HAH-hah! Anezaki-san, where are you?!"

Mamori came forward, clutching her briefcase, and began to speak--but Taki's attention had already wandered, and suddenly he was speaking to the man who was still straddling the would -be robber. "KURITA-SAN, is that you? Ah-HAH-hah, cheating on your diet, I see! What would Buddha say?"

Mamori did a double-take. That man couldn't in any possible reality be the Kurita-san she'd known. The only possible explanation was that there were only so many last names in Japan, and that this just happened to be another Kurita that her friends knew. And yet...

"Hoee, Taki-kun, Suzuna-chan! I only followed this man in here because I uhm... knew he was up to no good! So d-don't jump to conclusions, please!"

Mamori gaped. That voice was the same, but this person was... was... so very... well, not exactly thin by any standards, perhaps, but... incredibly human-shaped, not resembling an over-inflated beach ball in the least. She approached with an almost morbid curiousity. "Kurita-san?"

The man turned his head, and blinked. "Mamori-san! It's been so long!" He spread his arms as if to hug her, and started to rise--but then remembered what he was doing, and resumed his seat on the would-be robber's stomach. The man grunted. Kurita turned to the cashier. "Uhm, I hate to ask, but could you please call the police? With all respect, I need to return home at a reasonable hour."

"Y-you're the f-famous ex-sumo wrestler, Kurita Ryokan!" The cashier stammered. "The one who sells all the w-weight loss products on television!"

Kurita glanced at Mamori, and turned away from her, as if embarrassed. She could see his face was starting to turn red. "Y-yes, that's me."

Due to the lateness of the hour, the four of them ended up going out for sushi once the authorities had taken their statements. Kurita was invited by default, and Mamori didn't object. They had a great time in general, talking and laughing and remembering all of the crazy things they'd done back at Deimon... gossiping about who'd married whom, and who worked and who didn't, and what people did with their lives... all of the things Mamori had wanted to ask, but had never had the courage to, before. But it had been long enough ago, now, and Kurita's presence had such a cheering and calming effect, that it seemed impossible that she should be embarrassed to ask about anything.

After biting her tongue for the better part of an hour, Mamori gave in and started asking about the Bats' college career. She'd seen the games over the internet, and she'd recorded them, of course. Even cut out the newspaper clippings for a time, although that had gotten old and after a while, she'd hidden the scrapbook in the attic of her old house--it was probably still up there, among the various other things she had yet the courage to visit her husband and demand for herself. It had always hurt her a little that the gang had managed for the most part to get into the same post-secondary institution and re-form the old team without her. Although she supposed she could have followed everyone... if they had seen fit to make certain she was included. But for some reason or another, it didn't happen. "I always thought I was a pretty good manager. Wasn't I? Did... anyone ever replace me?"

The table grew silent. Eventually, Kurita cleared his throat. "I think a few people tried... ahh... Hiruma-san didn't really get along with them. Those people kind of... went away."

"We all got letters, Mamori," Taki burst out loudly, much to Suzuna's obvious chagrin. He continued on despite her desperate hand motions. "We went to the World Cup in our final year. Surely you must have seen it!"

Mamori forced herself to smile. "Yes. I saw it." She wished she could sound happier, and cursed herself silently for hearing the tears building in the back of her throat. She impulsively bent her head over her meal and concentrated on stirring a chunk of wasabi into her soy sauce with choppy stirring motions. The green paste mixed into the thin brown liquid and became a lighter brown lumpy sort of slush. Of course, she didn't even particularly like spicy food. It was just something to do while she composed herself.

What a sentimental fool she was. She'd thought she was over having feelings like this. It happened so many years ago... It was stupid. These people were her friends, or at least had been, once upon a time. It was useless being upset over something that had happened so long ago. Even if after all this time she felt left out. Betrayed.

Taki talked on, but Mamori noticed that Suzuna and Kurita both were looking at her with a mixture of discomfort and concern. She smiled again.

"You got a scholarship to a good university, didn't you?" Suzuna interrupted finally, kicking her brother in the shins to make him quiet. "When I saw you five years ago, when I went to visit Sena and Shin in New York, you talked about it a bit. It sounded really nice."

"It was. Brown is a very respectable institution. It was the first stepping-stone in establishing my career." _But I would have given it up,_ she thought bitterly, _to be with my friends again, to be part of your lives. I would have made that choice, Hiruma-san, if you had given it to me._

The talk finally drifted in the inevitable direction of Sena and Shin and their lucrative career with the New York Giants, as well as the suprising revelation of their alternative lifestyle choices in later years. Apparently, "nobody" had seen it coming. Mamori had to cough into her napkin to keep from choking. It was wrong of her to laugh, but part of her suspected Suzuna still carried a torch for Mamori's "little brother," even after all these years. It was adorable, if not slightly demented. Even with his body honed to athletic perfection, Sena's effeminacy and the fact that he had never managed to just "meet" the enemy but always desired to make an intense emotional connection and understanding with every guy he came across... coupled with the way he became so involved with all of his opponents in football, to the point of an almost romantic obsession... it only managed to confirm the suspicions Mamori had nursed from the early days of their friendship, back when the other boys picked on Sena and beat up on him in elementary school. She was proud that her old friend was strong now and had made such a name for himself, that he supported his partner and could stand on his own... but that had never diminished her instinct that the other males in the year below her had turned on him not only because he was small, but also because they had sensed he was different. Children were cruel that way. "Shin and Sena send their regards," she spoke before she could think, almost absent-absentmindedly. "They didn't think they could make it. Conflicts of scheduling and all that."

Suzuna sniffed. "Making another film, is he? I swear, that whole 'Eyeshield' thing has gone on for far too long. He's old like us--what do people still see in him?"

Mamori shrugged. "Jackie Chan kept on making movies into his late fifties," she pointed out simply. "I guess Sena-kun has simply decided to do the same thing."

After some quibbling over the cheque, they rose and fiddled with their coats. Suzuna skated on ahead to retrieve her car--Mamori sincerely hoped that she was planning to remove her skates before attempting to drive it--and Taki had spun over to the bar to hit on the young lady dispensing the drinks. _That guy just never knows his limits... if she were middle-aged at least, I could see him having a chance..._

Speaking of chances, Mamori felt that this was the one she'd been waiting for... one that she hadn't even realized she might have. She grasped Kurita's arm just as he was bowing and wishing her a good night's sleep.

"Kurita-san."

The man froze. An aspect of shame appeared to settle over him. "Y-yes, Mamori-san?"

"Is... is he going to be there?"

Kurita took on an aspect of false innocence. "I don't think I understand."

Taki returned, looking somewhat put out, and Mamori let go of Kurita's sleeve, her courage subsiding; her chance lost. Even though she wasn't even sure what she was asking. Except... she hadn't, in all this time, communicated with that person. She wasn't sure she was even welcome. What would she do, or say? Part of her wanted to corner that guy and drag him into a corner, and just scream. _This is what I turned into, because..._ because what?

She could have asked people where they were going, after Deimon. She hadn't.

She could have transferred after she'd seen that the Bats were re-formed. She didn't.

She had nothing to reproach Hiruma-san with.

And yet, and yet... even now, she felt betrayed. How dare he leave her out of his plans, and assume she would have a better life somewhere else? Or worse yet, deem her unecessary?

And how dare he prove that to be true?


	3. Chapter 3

Mamori woke at noon and rose from her spot on Suzuna's couch with a serious crick in her neck and an incredibly awful taste in her mouth. She groaned. As a parent who had nagged her children on the subject many a time, she really felt foolish for forgetting to brush her own teeth. _After four fillings and a crown,_ she thought wryly, _you'd think I'd get the message._

She rose to find a note scrawled hastily in childish writing admonishing her for missing breakfast, and telling her that her friends had saved the bathwater, should she need it. Mamori grunted and figured Suzuna was at work--although where Taki was, who knew. She crumpled the note in one hand and staggered into the siblings' amazingly tiny kitchen, feeling like a zombie out of a horror movie. Absently, she scraped at the plaque that had built up on her front teeth overnight with a sluggishly applied thumbnail. Her gums bled a bit. The iron tang of it made her stomach rumble.

_Brains..._ okay, maybe leftover sashimi from last night. Just as raw, and twice as acceptable.

The coffee maker was still set in the "warm" position so Mamori helped herself to a mug and subsequently unplugged it. The soy milk in the fridge seemed off, so after whiffing it, Mamori put it back with a grimace and drank her beverage black. She wasn't even going to try and find the sugar. It was too much effort, and besides, she was trying to do Weight Watchers, or was it Jenny, or maybe that was just something she'd told her daughter in a vague effort to be inspirational. Kind of difficult to remember when one wasn't properly awake.

Gradually, memories of the evening before filtered back. Mamori picked up a piece of red snapper and bit through the tough texture with meditative fascination. There was a toughness to snapper that made it almost like sinking one's teeth into a particularly hard type of Italian cheese. Not as salty, though. She ruminated quietly, chewing her fish and sipping her coffee, feeling slightly robotic, or cow-like. Underneath it all, her mind was working itself into a silent sort of panic. There were things she'd promised to do, to say--not to anyone but herself, so of course she still had time to back down-- but just because it was the right thing to do. Or was it? Sometimes it was best to let sleeping dogs lie, (or so they said, whomever _they_ were) and well, demons couldn't be that different, could they?

_But he's not a demon, Mamori. He's a flesh and blood human being. And... not to let him know..._

_So what? _Part of her thought defiantly._ This is real life, not some stupid romance novel. You know what kind of person that man is. Even if he isn't a complete monster, he was a criminal then and he's likely still a criminal now. Sure, maybe not an _actually-killing-people-outright_ criminal, but certainly a _guilty-of-committing-fraud-and-extortion-and-purchase-and-resale-of-illegal-goods_ sort of criminal. And it's been too long. You were smart to get out when you did. You don't owe him a thing._

_That isn't entirely true... there are some truths that are just felt, that don't have a place set down in paper. And besides, aren't you curious? After all this time, don't you want to know? Or are you still ashamed, just because--_

Mamori banished that line of thinking and decided to think about trivial things instead. The reunion was set to kick off at seven p.m. that evening. Mamori had managed to sleep in too late--there wasn't any time to visit a salon, much to her dismay. Suzuna had told her the night before that she thought the state of Mamori's hair was intentional, so maybe that was all right. It was hard to tell, however; the girl was terribly upbeat about practically any subject as long as it didn't involve her freeloading elder brother.

And yet, Mamori felt slightly strange around those two. Sometimes they seemed more like a married couple than a pair of siblings. It would likely mortify her friend if she ever alluded to her suspicions--she'd simply succumbed to too many lonely evenings with a carton of ice cream and Jerry Springer blaring at her in full-colour, dulling her braincells on a sunny Saturday afternoon. Before she lugged herself out of bed and went to the gym, of course. (A girl had to keep fit and look good if she wanted to keep bossing people around. Even if one was practically the age that meant you weren't supposed to think about things like sex appeal anymore.)

Feeling slightly more human, Mamori staggered over to the equally tiny washroom with her coffee still in hand and stripped, folding her clothes and balancing them on the edge of the sink. Setting the coffee aside, she took what she hoped was a fresh washcloth, stepped into the basin near the edge of the already-steaming bathtub, and scrubbed all over before getting in. Once she was entirely submersed, Mamori sighed, held her breath, and dunked her head under. Afterwards, she laid back with a protracted moan, soaping herself with the cloth she'd used earlier, and trying out of some latent sense of nationalism not to be weirded out by the fact that she was sitting in pre-used bathwater. Washing the Japanese way was so different than how things were done in the 'States. She'd grown up doing this, but the last thirty odd years of her life had been spent brushing her teeth, urinating, shaving, drinking coffee, and (granted, not recently) having sex in the shower. Water wasn't religiously conserved in America the way it was here. In this part of the world, like many things, there was more of a sense of a religious ceremony in doing the simplest daily activities.

Presently, she remembered why she'd neglected her teeth the night before. Her toiletries, among other items she needed for the duration of her stay, were still in her checked luggage. After drying herself, Mamori wondered what on earth she was going to wear. She had planned on going dressed in a strappy black number along with a cardigan sweater she'd bought a month or so ago, during a shopping trip she'd gone on with her son. Dressed in a towel, Mamori sped into the living room, snatched up her cell, and called the airport by hitting the memory button. The bored-sounding operator confirmed that her items were "still misplaced, but not lost." Apparently there was supposed to be some sort of distinction. Mamori gave the man some choice words and snapped her phone shut with a jerky hand movement. All right, looked like she'd be going in her outfit from yesterday.

The suit was a little wrinkled from sleeping in it, but with a few touch-ups from Suzuna's iron, the dark grey linen became once again presentable. The cream-coloured undershirt Mamori had worn under it was pit-stained, however, and what was worse was that it was silk, and couldn't go in the clothes dryer on peril of creating pulls in the fabric. In the end, she fixed on submitting herself to Suzuna's mercy. She'd simply have to ask if her old friend had anything in her closet she could borrow, as a substitute.

In the meantime, she fiddled on her laptop, sitting around in her pants and bra. She spent about three hours answering emails, but at some point the jet lag started getting to her, and she closed her eyes--just for a moment. She awoke to jangling keys which announced the siblings' return. Mamori cursed softly, and had her blazer buttoned by the time they were in the door.

"YAAAAA!! Are you ready to go?!"

Mamori grimaced redly, pretended to be in the middle of answering a mass forward she was reading, and explained the situation. Suzuna _"hm'd"_ and disappeared into her bedroom.

The former cheerleader returned with a number of lacy or skin-tight pink and purple scraps of fabric with flowers sequined on the front or racing stripes down the side in bright primary colours. Mamori blinked at them, and pushed her computer aside, her diffidence forgotten. In as polite a manner as possible, she stretched for a way to voice her misgivings without committing offense. "These are a little bit... loud..." She said tactfully. "You wouldn't have anything a tad more... plain?"

The cheerful woman merely laughed. "Why'd you want to be plain? This is a PARTY! Time to dress UP!"

Mamori muttered a quiet assent and chose a rose-coloured thing with a few plastic iridescent disks fringing the bottom of it, arranged like daisies. It smelled like the girl had already worn it once but her perfume was nice and Suzuna had never really sweated very much.

After quashing her misgivings, Mamori esconsed herself in the washroom and embarked upon the project of squeezing into Suzuna's top with an embarrassed grunt. _I need to lose some weight,_ she thought ruefully. Mamori wasn't _fat_ in any sense of the word but motherhood had caused her breasts and hips to swell just a little and perhaps she'd gone up a size or four during the course of her life while her purely Japanese friend had remained... petite, in the chest region. Mamori reflected not for the first time that she had her quarter-American ancestry to thank for her gigantic bosom and terribly effective sweat glands. Both were a help and a hindrance throughout the course of her life, depending entirely on the situation. She was cursing her physiology in this particular case, but she supposed the men probably wouldn't be complaining.

And then there was the ring. Just one. She'd still been at school when she married, and neither of them had been able to afford both an engagement _and _a wedding band, so they had rather economically combined the two. Mamori figured that people would be looking at the ring on her finger and asking why she hadn't taken her husband to this event. It was easy enough to make up any number of excuses, but did she really want to lie about something like that? She looked at the object frankly under the neon lighting and wondered whether or not it was really right to take it off, before the paperwork at home had been finalized. Besides, the object _did_ in its way afford her a sort of protection. Even if she didn't feel like she was in a relationship any longer, she supposed she should leave it on. It would indicate that she wasn't available and... explain things. To people. Right?

Suzuna, for her part, was going as Taki-kun's date as both of them were currently single, or something like that. To Mamori this made perfect sense, but she still felt a bit strange watching the girl dust off her brother's jacket with a lint brush and fix his tie in a proper knot. She seemed so much more like his wife.

The ride to Deimon was--again--nostalgic. Mamori shuddered at the familiarity and alien-ness of it all, how everything was different and yet the same.

_Here I go,_ she told herself, gripping the sweaty plastic handhold next to Suzuna's as they rode the bullet train in the direction of their old stomping grounds. She watched the storefronts become increasingly run-down as they started to pass through an older part of the city, before picking up again later down the line. The graffitti sank back from the walls into the alleys like frightened youths that still swore when they thought all the adults' backs were turned.

Suzuna gabbled on about the closing of the bakery and the opening of a French restaurant in its place. The grocery store was run by Koreans now. Wasn't it interesting the way... and so on.

Mamori smiled and responded when it was appropriate, but her gut was already churning with discomfort. She wished that Sena and Shin had come, but with their work schedules, it hadn't been possible, and she understood that... and besides, her mistakes were her own. She couldn't expect Sena to show up as a buffer and protect her, even if she'd always protected him. You couldn't treat friendship like some kind of banking process and expect returns on investments the way you would with a term deposit. And besides, Sena had paid her already with his silence, and she was eternally grateful for that.

Taki made a few seemingly random comments and Suzuna started to rebuke him for some reason. Mamori stuck her hands in her pockets and straightened her shoulders, thinking about the choices she'd made in life, and wondering if there was ever such a thing as existence without regrets.

* * *

_Author's Notes: Happy Valentine's Day, everyone! This chapter goes out to my reviewers and the (shy?) people who have placed Alerts but not said anything. I encourage you all to speak up and let me know what you liked/disliked, found original/unoriginal, in-character/out-of-character, and so on. _


	4. Chapter 4

As Mamori entered the gym-cum-ballroom, a powerful sense of déjà vu caused her stomach to resume its nervous churning. Much to her dismay, at that precise moment Taki and Suzuna spotted some of their former classmates and hurried to catch their attention, oblivious to their American guest's distress and the fact that she was lagging behind them.

Mamori tripped sluggishly forward for a few paces and then leaned against the wall, feigning casual interest in the people who were passing by her at a sporadic pace. It shamed her to admit it, but she really wished that Sena had been able to find time in his busy schedule to accompany her here. Being in his company always made her feel much braver. It was funny--when they were small, she'd always looked out for him, but now that they were older, it sometimes felt as if the situation had reversed.

_Don't be stupid! Get a grip!_ She chided herself, even as her hands started to shake. _You're here now, and there's no going back. Really, what's the big deal about a dumb little high-school reunion when you eat reasonably-sized corporations for breakfast? You make more than the majority of these people! What would your employees say if they saw you like this?_

_But it's all the same,_ some part of her whined–the portion of her psyche that still managed to sound unreasonably juvenile. _Even the streamers and banners look like leftovers from the night we graduated._

She wouldn't have been surprised if they were. The folding chairs and tables were certainly the very ones that had been used decades ago. Granted, there were a few new restaurant style booths sitting smugly in the four corners near the exits, looking very impromptu and mismatched and ineffably _Deimon._ Still, it was uncanny how much tonight's red-and-black decor resembled the decorations that night so long ago; so much so that it was like stepping back in time.

The businesswoman bit her lip, feeling a sublime terror filling her at the comparison, but thankfully reason soon rose to counter it. Of course the gym would be the same! It made perfect sense that an upper-level secondary school in a low-income catchment area like Deimon wouldn't have updated its physical education facility in almost twenty-five years. And so, _yes,_ there was the same paint job that had been laid down during her first year, the same little dents in the waxed-over wood, the same little blue metal doors leading to the boys' and girls' locker rooms and the weight rooms...

How many events had she helped to organize for the school or chaperoned for the disciplinary committee in this very spot? Too many to count. It wasn't right that nothing had been changed since she'd been here last. _Hell_--she choked back a burst of hysterical laughter-- she could even see the bullet holes from the time poor Kurita-san had hidden under the vaulting horse! The characteristic spray of depressions in the wall could still be seen despite a botched attempt at repairs, and the replacement floor planks that they'd put in were still a different shade than their neighbors.

Mamori did her best to swallow down the bile that rose up as she surveyed the room she hadn't realized would affect her like this and sent up a random prayer for the fast appearance of a friendly face. Feeling idiotically desperate, she latched onto the arm of the first person she recognized. "Satake-kun! How are you?!" _Oh damn,_ she thought a little too late, _this guy had a crush on me, didn't he?_ Oh well. Sometimes a girl had to use her waning assets to an advantage. _Protect me, pervy basketball-guy. Save me from the big bad room. And also help me move in the direction of Suzuna over there, if you please..._ Why she couldn't move across the room on her own, of course, was a mystery. Or perhaps not.

Maybe she didn't want a confrontation, after all. It was time for wussing out. She'd smile through the ceremonies and leave. This was the new plan. Mamori decided rashly that she liked the new plan. Or maybe the plan was to look like she didn't want to speak to that certain person in particular, and seem like she was having a great time, and conversing with any old ex-quarterback regardless of what He might think was certainly not her ambition in coming here tonight, and the gods defend anyone who so much as hinted at such a thing.

Satake for his part acted almost perfectly... at first. While initially wary--for what reason she couldn't tell, he wasn't exactly bad looking, but then again it had been a long time and they had never been necessarily _close_--the man appeared to perk up quickly, and began to engage in earnest conversation with her. Satake's friend Yamaoka followed close behind, but didn't say anything. He seemed to be attempting to communicate something however with both his eyes as well as through gestures of the head, but it was difficult to discern the import of it as she found herself being pelted by a number of invasive and (to her mind) probably well-meant yet increasingly inappropriate questions. With some effort she diverted the flow of their conversation from her personal life to work. Satake shifted uncomfortably, and Yamaoka coughed. Satake jerked suddenly as if realizing Yamaoka's presence for the first time since he'd arrived, looked away briefly, and excused himself without reason.

Yamaoka lowered his voice once his buddy was out of earshot. "He just got out of jail, you see."

"Oh?" Mamori felt a wash of horror come over her. And she'd clung to the guy the moment he'd walked in the door! But how was she to have known? All she could remember was an ingratiating promise to continue playing on the amefuto team in return for attention from herself, and then girls in general... Inwardly, she tried to foist the blame for this gaffe on Kurita for not mentioning it to her the night before. But in all fairness, these two semi-permanent helpers, like her, were never included in the later incarnation of the Bats. It would make sense that the boys would fall out of touch-- "Do I want to know what for?"

Yamaoka grimaced. "Probably not." He answered truthfully. "Look, I hate to say this, but how about I take you back over to Taki-kun? It's been a while since I've seen him. We were in the same line of work for a while, so it won't seem too much like I'm telling you to get away from him."

"Aha. Okay," Mamori found her face was starting to burn with embarrassment. People were so _proper _in Japan. She'd forgotten how bad it looked to be talking to the wrong sort of person. She couldn't help but wonder what that boy had been in for--of course, he was a man now--but still! "What occupation was that?" She asked politely.

"Oh. Adult entertainment."

"You mean... dancing? For parties?"

"Uhm, no. Think film. The kind that doesn't go to theatres." Yamaoka said lightly. "We thought it would be all fun and games at first, 'ladies' men' that we were, but experience taught us that being objectified isn't all it's cracked up to be. Makes me sort of look back at the way I was as a teenager and feel kind of ashamed. Going apeshit over the Yuuhi Guts' manager in _buruma_ and waxing poetic about there still being paradise in Japan--if you could see some of the things I've been forced to wear on screen, you'd understand why I'm eating my words these days."

"...eating your words?" Mamori repeated, feeling very much at a loss as to what to say. She was deposited at Taki and Suzuna's table with little ceremony. The siblings seemed more than a little embarrassed to see her saviour, and the words they exchanged were polite but brief. Mamori noted that after Yamaoka left, Suzuna squeezed her brother's hand. But when the ex-cheerleader turned to speak to her, all Suzuna did was smile. "See!? I told you it'd be fun! Cute, wasn't he?"

Mamori opened her mouth to answer that no, almost giving out your information to a possible stalker was _not_ her idea of a good time, and neither was the very real possibility of contracting a number of diseases, but her words were forgotten when the entire table shuddered. Suzuna swore and kicked something hidden by the tablecloth, but didn't look down. She turned towards Mamori and smiled. "Don't look, but there's Omosadake over there. We need to protect Kurita-san from him, at least until the presentation begins and people take their seats."

"I... what?"

"Here, have a cucumber sandwich," Suzuna said, a touch too loudly, placing one of the dainty refreshments from her plate onto a napkin and making a show of handing it to Mamori. Quietly, she said, "drop it."

Mamori blinked, perplexed, but did as she was told.

And covered her mouth when a slightly chubby hand snaked out from underneath the table and snatched the falling treat out of mid-air. "Th-thanks!"

Mamori crossed her legs, and then remembered with a rush of relief that she was wearing pants. "Kurita-san?"

"Y-y-yes?"

Mamori couldn't help it. She bent over and lifted the fabric so she could look the ex-linebacker in the face. "Why... are you under the table?"

Suzuna intervened and pulled the fabric back down. "It's a long story," she explained cheerfully.

"Well, give me the short version...?"

"Shh. You can hear about it later."

Mamori snorted. "Whatever. Just pile some cakes in front of the guy. He'll think running after Kurita-san is 'unecessary effort.'"

A series frightened of whimpers issued from underneath the table.

Mamori sighed and poured herself a cup of tea. People said that Americans were crazy—but they'd never been to Deimon.

* * *

At length, the lights dimmed and their old principal appeared. He was now retired, and shook a bit as he approached the podium and pawed at the microphone with shaking fingers. The man must be ancient by now, she realized. Somewhat unfairly, Mamori found she was wondering whether the man ever _did_ end up leaving his wife. It had been wrong of him to have an affair all those years ago, but now that she'd tried and failed at the marriage game herself, she couldn't help but feel a strong sense of sympathy towards the aged administrator. 

She was dimly aware of Kurita's sigh of relief followed by some small amount of commotion as he squeezed out from underneath the table and took a spot in the empty seat to her left. It was still somewhat amazing that he now truly only needed a single chair. Perhaps that was the main cause of his argument with the former head of the sumo club... some kind of jealousy, or a perceived slight in the refutation of the lifestyle her friend had mastered and then left behind? If that were the case, she found she would have to take Kurita's side in the matter. There was tradition and that was fine and well, but one should be allowed to take responsibility for one's own lifestyle choices without worrying about what other people thought... _Justifying our own indiscretions by making stretched comparisons, are we now? _Her conscience sneered. Mamori steadfastly ignored it. She'd become rather good at it, over the years.

The principal's speech was short but laudatory—after these years graduated, the school had an established amefuto team and facilities which had been paid for through fundraising on the part of said graduates entirely--

Mamori almost spat out her tea at that bit. She'd never heard anyone call counting cards, blackmail and extortion "fundraising" before—she started laughing into a napkin. Suzuna patted her on the back distractedly.

--and it would please the principal now if he could hand the floor over to Yukimitsu Manabu, the noted holder of Doctorates in both physics and psychology at Kyushu University, who would give a few words to his fellow graduating members of 2007 as well as those who followed in 2008.

Mamori sobered up a little for Yukimitsu-kun. She was glad to hear he'd done so well for himself. She drummed her fingers on the table and tried to concentrate on the words. It was a corny speech, filled with football metaphors. She did her best not to yawn. Mentally, she recalled a map of the country in her head. _Kyushu, eh?_ She wondered if he'd taken a post that far away to get out from underneath his maternal parent's thumb, or if he still lived with that overbearing woman. People had thought _she _was bad, with the way she'd watched over Sena during his first year, but her 'big sister' relationship with Sena had _nothing_ on Yukimitsu's mom. ... looking at Yukimitsu now, and remembering what Kurita had told her last night, she figured the guy had never married. His male pattern baldness gleamed like a fuzzy peach in the spotlight, and Mamori decided sympathetically that if her son were here he'd agree it would be a better look for the man at this point to simply shave it off and go entirely bald. She wondered absently if he still pronounced 'Mother' with a capital letter, like you'd see in the subtitles to an old Alfred Hitchcock movie.

"--and as we hit that series of downs in life, we must always recall that we had embarked on this quest as a team, and we must always endeavour not to forget that this is the place where we realized we were part of a greater whole, that with each yard we gain we must look back and thank our brothers and sisters for blocking the opposition and giving us encouragement when we needed it--"

Mamori did her best not to groan. Oh, Yuki-kun. So idealistic, even now. But at least his speaking voice was better, these days. He no longer seemed to speed up when he was nervous. She let her attention wander, and scanned the room for more familiar faces now that people were sitting down. In the dim light she could make out two of the three Hah-Hah Brothers. Juumonji, she knew, had taken over his father's company and now was the successful proprietor of a chain of resorts and golf courses mostly catering to expensive foreign tastes. Toganou, looking somewhat shabbier off to his left, was a starving artist—or should one say, hack animator-- made to keep long hours working for some company that contracted out to Korea. It was his job to clean and edit the cells for final production. He looked like he hadn't slept for days. Kuroki was conspicuously absent. She wondered if he'd even come. Kurita hadn't had any news of him for a very long time. _Maybe he fell off of the face of the earth, sucked into some kind of Hah-less void._ The thought was silly, but it still made her feel a little sad to imagine it. She let her eyes pass again over the faces in the makeshift auditorium, letting the memories come and go as they pleased.

No, _that person _didn't seem to be here. She should really stop looking. It was rude. Her eyes should be on the podium, her mind on Yukimitsu's carefully written speech, politely parsing all its goofy amefuto jargon.

"As the hurdles we encounter rip and tear at us, it is good to approach at times a place of safety, to call a 'time out' as it were, and to pause and recollect, to converse and strategize before choosing one's next move. This is what I learned here at Deimon, and I believe it is in a way, what we have all learned. I would like tonight to be such an instance of rest in the hectic second half of our lives, before approaching that third quarter--"

"Laying it on a bit thick, isn't he?" Suzuna giggled, but Mamori didn't have the attention span to respond. She'd seen something, a glint of black gunmetal, in the far corner of the room, near the door. She needed more light, she decided faintly. Just to be sure. As quietly as possible, Mamori unzipped her purse and liberated a book of matches. With some care she excavated and re-lit the guttering tea-light whose wick had been drowning in its own wax. Her vision thus improved, she directed her gaze to that point once more. Her eyes widened.

It wasn't fair, she decided, once her brain resumed normal activity after shorting out for a good few minutes. With a quiet hiss Mamori withdrew her hand from the glass candle-holder and sucked on her stinging fingertips. After all this time, he wasn't supposed to look exactly the same. He should have grown up and changed, like everyone else. And maybe he had, in little ways. There were probably wrinkles around his eyes, maybe deeper lines around his mouth, as if he'd smirked one to many times and it just got stuck that way. And maybe his voice was deeper when he spoke—and maybe there was less muscle definition than before, given that years had passed since attaining that physical peak. But it was hard to tell from this distance, although it frightened her how much she wanted to go over there and find out. _I know it's been a while, Hiruma-kun, but in the purpose of scientific interest, if you could just lift up your shirt... _No. Bad idea. Very, very bad idea.

But she couldn't stop looking.

She'd supposed at some point he would have stopped bleaching his hair and dyeing it blond, taken the piercings out and let the holes grow in. Or update his look at least to stay current with the times. But he hadn't. Mamori wasn't certain whether this made her glad, or slightly disappointed. He hadn't noticed her yet which was good, because she couldn't help but gape over the fact that Hiruma hadn't grown up.

Of course, maybe that was because the man had done all of the growing-up he'd had to do back while the rest of them were just beginning the process. Immaturely mature, that enigmatic team captain of theirs. Control in the guise of having none at all. A necessary evil to bind the rest of the school together in a pact of common fear and awe. It had worked for him back then and Mamori supposed that from the looks of things, the same practices were equally as effective, even now.

He was talking to someone she hadn't realized was there, but who she guessed from that quality was probably Ishimaru. The former track star was looking well, grey hair in a jaunty buzz-cut that she guessed nobody ever commented on, and dressed in a plain but not necessarily inexpensive charcoal suit. He and Hiruma seemed to be discussing something with moderate animation. Mamori felt a quiet pain in her chest. It was strange to see how even decades after graduation, those actions were still preserved: the trademarked gestures, the sliding eye movement, the tilt of the chin, the way he held and bit into a biscuit, pensive, almost coquettish-- (Men shouldn't be allowed to look that coquettish! --but in Hiruma, it fit.) What should have looked almost too delicate or arguably effeminate on anyone else had a dangerous sharpness in him. His features were still as striking as they had been all those years ago. Even the black turtleneck was the same. And there he sat in a long leather coat dyed a deep blood red and crosshatched with slashes and occasional stitches. Mamori had to bite back a sigh when, (oblivious?) to being watched, Hiruma eased back in his seat, propping his legs up on the table. She bet he still walked with his hands in his pockets, still kicked doors open with the cocky indifference of a boy of seventeen years. She turned her head and tried to block the rush of images that came to her, but it was all coming back with the memory of the scent of sweat and dirt and cheap beer...

* * *

Mamori looked up at the red and black tissue streamers and handmade paper mâché stars and planets that hung from knotted pieces of translucent fishing wire, wobbling precariously as people danced below. She narrowed her eyes at the strings and hoped a certain someone didn't let loose with the gunfire indoors because that would just be a number of accidents waiting to happen. But she hadn't seen hide nor hair of the so-called demon for the past two weeks, so it would be strange, she supposed, to see last years' quarterback show up here tonight. The boy had barely spoken a word to her—or anyone—for the past three semesters, since winning the Christmas Bowl. She wouldn't even be sure if Hiruma was graduating along with the rest of them if she hadn't given in to her insecurities and abused her friendships with some of the teachers to sneak into the staff room during a free period, find a computer someone hadn't logged out of, and taken a look at his marks. (That had been embarrassment in itself, because it was only when she'd found what she wanted that Mamori realized she was stuck. She wasn't good with computers, and had ended up unplugging the thing in a panic when logging out of the program proved impossible. Later she'd found out that Yamaha-sensei was in a foul mood because someone had erased all of his marks after he'd spent a full hour putting them in. Thankfully, she hadn't been caught.) 

Mamori straightened her skirt and sidled up to the punch bowl. She poured a small amount into a plastic cup and tasted it carefully for alchohol content. As part of the disciplinary committee, working undercover to keep this party within regulations was basically the final duty of her third year. She wondered frankly if she would have time for these sorts of things when she started college in a few months. Did they have disciplinary committees in America? She would have to find out.

Well, the punch didn't _taste_ spiked, but she supposed she'd have to try a bit more to be sure. This was her second cup, and she felt fine, so she supposed that was what counted. Mamori ran a hand in front of her eyes. Okay, so maybe her vision was a tad blurry, but she'd been up late gossiping with her friend Ako and it was probably just sleep that was doing this. Most alchohol had a strong and bitter taste and could be detected right away, didn't it?

Mamori looked down at what she was wearing. She was dressed in a simple pink cardigan sweater over a black skirt and top—a bit conservative for the crowd assembled here tonight, she admitted to herself, but then again, she hadn't exactly come to this thing to have fun. She was here because it made her happy to see that her friends were happy. That was all that should matter.. right?

Suzuna was flying about the dance floor dressed in a frilly white costume that made her look like a Spanish bride. She made quite a picture in Juumonji's arms, long blue hair flying. _They're a cute couple_, Mamori thought with a small twinge of jealousy. Suzuna was a different kind of girl... she dated a lot, and probably had done more than that. As for Mamori, she'd never even so much as _kissed _a boy on the mouth...

Well, that was all right. She would be going away on a scholarship to a university halfway across the world, so maybe _then_–

"Mamori nee-san!"

"Sena?!"

"You need to come quick..."

"What is it?"

A number of loud retorts came from outside, followed by some concussive, ground-shaking blasts that cut through the slow dance music that a number of couples were in the midst of swaying to. A rising murmur of protest ran through the crowd and grew in intensity like a hive of buzzing bees. One or two decorations fell, dangerously close to the refreshment table.

Mamori groaned. "What is he doing?"

"Uhm... I'm not sure? Shooting at pigeons, I think. Mamori..." Sena pulled on her hand and ducked in closer, eyes pleading. "I'm actually kind of worried..."

Mamori turned and saw that a line of people were moving towards her. She smiled faintly at them and started to think that spiking the punch _would _have been a good idea. Meanwhile, the rest of the room was crowding about the doors and staring out into the dark expanse of the football field. Occasionally there would be a flash of light, and the odd spectator would let out an appreciative _ooh_ or _ahh._ Mamori caught a familiar whiff of burnt paper and gunpowder and confirmed her suspicion through the afterimage of red and blue sparks as she approached. _Fireworks._ Of course.

It was the president of the student council who spoke up. "Mamori, you know that boy, go out there and put a stop to this."

Mamori shrugged, shying away from the spectacle. "Well—he'll probably get tired of it eventually..." People seemed to be enjoying it at least?

Another _boom _shook the gym, and a tiny replica of the planet Venus plumetted southern hemisphere-first into the bowl of punch, drenching somebody's date. "It's disruptive! You have a past history with that boy and you're on duty tonight—you go out there and I don't care how you do it—you put a stop to this! You're the only one he ever listens to."

Mamori was about to contend that remark but she found her own anger flaring when she saw part of the bleachers go up in a spray of wood splinters and smoke. Now that Hiruma was damaging school property, there was no way she could let this go. She took a deep breath and released it. "Leave it to me, Fukuchou."

So Mamori left the warmth of the school gym and tiptoed gingerly across the muddy field, testing the ground as she made her way. The moment her left foot stuck in the grass all the way up to her ankle however, she gave up on the enterprise of walking softly and decided to simply run with all her might since her new shoes seemed destined to be ruined after this anyway.

She neared the bleachers at the far end of the field and found Hiruma there, nursing what looked to be from the pile at his feet the twelfth or thirteenth beer he'd consumed that evening.

"Hiruma-kun."

"Fucking manager."

"You're making a mess," she stated simply, watching the boy's face carefully, and hoping she wouldn't have to put to use the thing she'd concealed in her evening bag in premonition of this final confrontation of wills between them.

Hiruma simply laughed and fired another spray of fireworks into the air. Mamori winced and noted from the smell of singed wood that according to her suspicions the demon _had_ very nearly set the bleachers on fire. She took a step towards him purposefully. "HIRUMA-KUN!" This was serious. She has never seen the boy demonstrate so little control. He'd always been wild, but there was before now always, _always _some measure of careful calculation behind it. But not tonight, apparently. Tonight Hiruma was being foolish and of all things irrational—and she couldn't just let it go. Combining inebriation with firearms was something that even the Devil shouldn't do.

She decided to go with the gentle approach at first. Not that she thought it would work, but at this point anything was worth a shot. "Hiruma-kun, the show has been very... nice, but I'm going to have to ask you to stop."

"Heeeh? And who's going to fucking _make _me?"

"I'm not making you do anything," Mamori stated reasonably. "I'm asking, first. Please. Give me the gun."

"Hn? Come and get it from me! Kekekekekekeke!" Hiruma darted out of reach and fired into the air directly above them. Mamori ducked, put her hands over her head, and pushed him down too before the explosions went off and the rain of flaming paper and still-fizzling gunpowder came down on them both--

* * *

Mamori bit into one of the cookies from the plate at the centre of the table. 

The next speaker (if he could be called that) was Komusubi-kun. Mamori fingered the gift bag at her place setting and pulled out her complementary copy of the semi-autobiographical novel he'd written: _Discovering and Deciphering the Language of Powerful Men._ She couldn't imagine when she'd find a use of it. She supposed she could give it to her son, but he could potentially take it the wrong way, and that would just be awkward.

She flipped the slim volume over, and scanned the reviews on the back. _Over 20 000 copies sold worldwide?_ Who read this kind of thing? Bodybuilders and weight-trainers?

Well, she supposed she should be glad for the little guy. If a glance towards the front table meant anything, he'd brought not just his wife and kid, but what appeared to be his entire family. Doburoku was over there too, she discovered. _So that's what I've been smelling since I sat down here._ She'd never figured out _why_ that man refused to bathe or change his clothes for months at a time. In her heart of hearts she'd always hoped someone would take the older man in and help cure him of his horrible gambling problem, but who would want to inconvenience themselves that far? Besides that, it was a hard fact of life that some people liked stewing in their own vices and didn't want to be saved.

* * *

They rolled out of the way, or perhaps the word is _struggled,_ because she was fighting with Hiruma for control over the gun. She was yelling at him and calling him stupid, and all he did was laugh and roll on top of her, and she supposed that anyone watching would immediately get the wrong idea, but she didn't _care._ Or rather, she was doing this because she _did _care. 

At one point Hiruma was straddling her thighs, with the barrel just tapping the side of her head. The nozzle was planted in the dirt, and Hiruma was gloating, stroking her hair in a grim parody of the affection she'd seen between the 'eldest' Hah brother and the head cheerleader a few scant moments ago. Mamori shivered at the feel of sharp nails in her scalp. It wasn't altogether unpleasant, but—she kneed the boy in the chest and scrambled for her bag, pulling out her own piece and slamming the cartridge in place. She'd found it lying around the clubhouse the year before, and well, she'd figured Hiruma wouldn't have missed it, seeing as he had so many.

Hiruma laughed. "You gonna shoot me, fucking manager?"

"If I have to," she spat, hoping that the ex-quarterback wouldn't call her bluff.

But who was she kidding? Hiruma leaned in close and grabbed the weapon by the front end, making an obscene yanking gesture, and then aimed it at his own forehead, grinning like a maniac. Mamori gaped, stunned, and almost dropped it. "You c-can't be serious--"

"Kekekekeke! How does it feel, fucking manager? Personally, I always thought this look suited you. Reminds me of Sports Day last year, all over again. Makes me fucking hot."

Mamori hesitated. Her hands shook. "Look, just put your gun down and we can talk. There's plenty of things--"

"Hn, really?" With casual aplomb, Hiruma dropped his firearm and knocked her hand away. He pulled her close, slamming her hips into his growing erection. "You think?"

* * *

Mamori graciously followed Suzuna and Taki to the buffet table but nothing really appealed. It was an effort to get her feet to move. The crotch portion of her underwear was completely damp, she was sure of it, and her legs felt like jelly. She took some salad and a roll and hurried back to her seat with her eyes trained on the floor, but as she moved to sit, the spotlight fell on her, and Komusubi asked her to come up and say a few words. Or at least, she was _reasonably sure _that's what he said. It had been a while since she'd last heard Powerful-Go spoken aloud like this. 

Mamori couldn't help but feel this whole setup was nothing short of planned out beforehand. She'd known she'd been asked to say a few words, and had a Point presentation ready just for this occasion, but she'd been given to understand that this would be happening _after_ dessert. Although she supposed they were putting out the sweet dishes now, come to think of it... Well. Time flew when you were having flashbacks. Mamori stood and waved at everyone as the clapping and catcalls accumulated, and made her way to the stage. She paused in front of the podium, fishing in her purse for the portable disk with the pictures on it, and hoping desperately that everyone couldn't tell that she'd just been reliving her first, _well..._

* * *

The next thing she knew, she was on the ground in the mud tangled in a much different struggle, desperation and anxiety transformed into something else entirely--the kind of frantic, spur-of-the-moment thing she'd read about of course but had never imagined happening to _her_. 

Maybe she should have seen this coming, she thought dimly as Hiruma's hands slipped underneath the sweater she wore and pulled down the straps of her sleeveless shirt, sharp nails passing gently overtop and undeneath the fabric, causing her to throw her neck back and mash her hair in the mud near the cigarette butts and unpicked-up bits of trash.

It wasn't the way it was in comic books, or the movies. There was no bed strewn with rosepetals or heartfelt declarations. But there was heat between them, and it was _good, _better than anything she'd ever felt, and damn it she'd spent too long hearing about things like this to turn back now. They lay together grinding against the damp earth in a mutual fumbling ecstasy of gasps and sighs. Mamori realized as he fiddled impatiently with the catch on her bra that she couldn't exactly say he seemed really _practiced_ at it. That much surprised her, but she knew better than to complain. Or perhaps it was simply a measure of how much she'd secretly _wanted_ this, although she knew how insane it was—the dirt on her dress would certainly give her away, and her reputation, her _reputation--_

--but what kind of stupid double-standard was it anyway, that boys could do this kind of thing, and it was joked about and encouraged, but girls couldn't? And besides, she was leaving in a few months, and this was probably the last time--

_Oh._ She was doing this and people would look at her and they'd know, and they'd see--butmaybe that punch had been spiked after all, loosened her up, and his hands on her felt so good, and Hiruma's voice was devilishly soft, was muttering words of vague encouragement, whispering exactly the dirty sorts of things that she'd always supposed he might say, but never to _her--_

"_Ah!"_ What was he _doing_ ...down there? It felt like nothing she'd ever imagined. Mamori had washed herself many times during in the course of her life but she'd never known about _that spot,_ and—he was hiking up her skirt and she should stop him, but she didn't want it to stop---

"_Fucking manager,_" Hiruma breathed roughly. He repeated himself, and shook her shoulder unexpectedly.

Mamori glanced up, slightly annoyed. Now was _not_ the time to remind her that she was supposed to be saving herself. If that was what Hiruma was going to do, she was going to be _so _annoyed with him--

"I've looked at your medical records. Team policy."

_More like _your _policy,_ Mamori thought bitterly. _Way to invade everyone's privacy._ Although she supposed if the guy had been able to get ahold of their passports for the Death March, anything was possible.

"You're on the pill, right?"

Anger almost doused the other passions in her. "You--" And then she considered the import of what he was saying and decided, well, for Hiruma, that was about as close to taking responsibility that she supposed the guy could get. "To regulate my period, yes..."

She disliked the implication that she was a loose girl, but instead of the joke she'd been expecting, Hiruma's hand entwined with hers. "Well," the look in his eyes was entirely serious. "Guess I've gotta make this fucking good then."

And it was. Together, they aimed at the sky, and pulled the trigger.

* * *

_(Author's Note: This chapter has been updated to reflect some suggestions made by KittyLynne who has generously given her time towards beta-ing this fic for me. It's a bit less muddled and cluttered and a lot more readable now, something I admit I needed help with. The best thing is I didn't even beg anyone to edit this--someone just magically arose like Venus on a clamshell and offered--which I'm glad of as I have several friends in the ES21 fandom but they're mostly into slash so I didn't want to punish them by making them read my het fic, heh. I believe I'll be running future chapters by her if she's so inclined, which means you guys will be getting a better product and... she gets to read it first, I suppose? The moral of the story is that when people offer to help each other out, everybody wins. So go out there and do some fucking good deeds, the lot of you::gunfire:: YA-HA! )_


	5. Chapter 5

**Author's Note:** my beta-reader and I wrestled with this chapter for a while, and I would just like to express my gratitude for the time, patience and dedication expended toward helping me with this while she has important real-life things and other projects on the go. **KittyLynne**, you are fantastic; please accept my extremely belated anniversary wishes! Thank you again! I would also like to thank those who reviewed because feedback is the reason I write. Knowing what my readers think helps me to improve.

* * *

Morning came, and Mamori found herself wishing it hadn't. The dawn of the new day saw her with a pounding headache, a queasy stomach, shivering and feeling sore in places she couldn't refer to without blushing. Moaning pathetically, she sat up and wrapped her arms around her body as she took a look at herself and her surroundings.

She was wet from morning dew, and covered in semi-dry mud. Hiruma was lying beside her, curled around what she'd dubbed the _firework-gun, _clutching it like a toddler would a teddy bear. She found herself wondering what the model name really was, and then angrily decided that she didn't care. After what had happened, he should have been holding _her_ when they woke up. Instead he was holding _that,_ which went a long way towards showing where his priorities lay.

With that thought, Mamori staggered to her feet, wincing and rubbing her hands up and down her arms in an attempt to get her circulation going.

She felt so... dirty, in all sorts of ways. Not violated... it didn't go that far. Whatever had happened last night, she'd wanted it all. But it still hurt. What had gotten into her, that she'd done something so reckless? Staying out all night... had they passed out together? She looked around again. The football field seemed deserted. They were alone out here. Alone under the bleachers, with only those flying rats people called pigeons present to call witness to their indiscretions...

She couldn't suppress a cough, which was followed by a loud sneeze. _Oh, no. Oh, no, no, no._ Not only would her mother _kill_ her when she got home, she was likely coming down with something, and she had a part-time job starting _this afternoon_ that was supposed to last her until she went abroad to start school! She had to get home and get changed, fast!

She looked for her panties, found them nearby, and picked them up off the ground.

After shaking them out and gingerly stepping into them one foot at a time, she almost wished she hadn't bothered. They were cold...and sticky... and the sensation was _really_ unpleasant. This was followed by the unhappy realization that there was a lingering_ scent, _and that it was all around her. _Oh, ew! _She thought, with a blush. _Nobody ever told me about _that.

She glanced over to the dozing ex-quarterback, and the sight gave her cause to reconsider her next course of action. Not wanting to take any chances, she picked up the smaller gun from where it had fallen the night before and put it back in her purse. After that, she slipped the firework-gun out of the sleeping devil's grip before nudging him impatiently with her foot. He didn't wake up.

After several nudges, Mamori found she had the power to curse. Maybe that was one of the aftereffects of losing one's virginity—swearing didn't seem like such a big deal anymore. Besides, she couldn't get over the sense that Hiruma was laughing at her, somehow. Was he _faking _being asleep this entire time? That would be so like him!

She wound up her leg and kicked him, hard—once and then twice. She pulled her foot back, getting ready to kick him a third time, and then paused as she caught an almost imperceptible twitch of his body. With a bitter smile, she let the pause drag out as Hiruma stirred..

He opened one eye, finally acknowledging her presence. "Hn. You're still here?"

"Yes I'm still here. Imagine that."

Her sarcasm seemed to rouse Hiruma. He opened his other eye and surveyed her from head to foot."Ya...ha. You weren't half bad last night, fucking manager. But you're a fucking mess. You wanna use the clubhouse to shower up?"

"Do I want to _shower?_ " Mamori repeated, incredulous. She wasn't even going to ask how he still had the keys to that place when club activities were closed to third years and the football club was located on school property. Not because she wasn't curious, but because she couldn't help but hinge on the_ first _part of that statement. "_Not half bad, 'fucking manager'?_ Is that _all_ you have to say to me after...after..."

She broke off as the former Deimon quarterback rolled onto his feet, barely missing hitting his head on the underside of the bleachers. He grinned at her worried grimace, and stuck his hands in his pockets. "Well, I guess it's my fault for picking such a crappy place to do it in. But at least you won't forget it any time soon."

"Wh-what?" Mamori stammered. "Do you mean...did you...you _planned _it?" Suddenly it all started to make a twisted sort of sense. The untraceable alcohol in the punch (because by now she was more or less convinced she had been drunk), Hiruma's so-called "fit" that required her special attention... _everything had been planned. _"You're unbelievable. Why didn't you...you could have just _asked_--"

"And how would you have expected me to do that, fucking manager?" Hiruma shook his head as he continued to grin. "After taking you out to a damn movie? After winning you a fucking stuffed animal at the festival? By writing a damn haiku for you? Kekekeke! What do you think, fucking manager? Does any of that sound like my style of doing things?"

At that moment, it occurred to Mamori that the clear-eyed, sharp tongued Hiruma wasn't showing any signs of having consumed alcohol. Seeming to pick up on her dawning revelation, he used his foot to heft an empty beer can in her general direction, while speaking in a more intimate tone. "So you're keeping that thing, eh? That's good. Like I said last night- it suits you."

He was referring to the gun in her purse of course; nothing escaped his notice. Not knowing what to say, Mamori averted her eyes to her sodden, mud caked clothes.

She _should_ go and shower in the clubhouse, but then what would happen next? Nude pictures to keep _him_ warm at night, or to be used to blackmail her later wherever she ended up? That is, if he hadn't already gotten some!

Chagrined by that thought of a concealed video camera possibly being set up in the spot where they'd... done it, Mamori warily looked around. She was relieved to see there was nothing in the immediate vicinity that was big enough to hide a camera, unless there were tiny ones concealed in the beer cans. Not very likely... but then again, with Hiruma anything was possible. Oh, _what _had she been thinking?

_You were thinking, damn he's hot, I can't believe this is happening to me._ She reminded herself. _And then you pretty much stopped thinking altogether._

"I'll go home now," she concluded weakly. "I'm going home."

"Heeh? Looking like _that?" _As she jerked her head in confirmation, Hiruma shrugged_. "_Well well. Do whatever you want, then." He half turned, his face hidden. "So long, Anezaki. And good luck in America, by the way."

It was far from the tender parting of lovers that she had read about in supermarket romance novels, or any that she'd seen on TV. But then, that kind of analogy was doomed to be false from the start, Mamori reminded herself, because this _wasn't_ just a simple case of fantasy versus reality.

_Well, at least I got him to call me Anezaki. _

"Thank you," she replied with forced politeness. Unshed tears roughened her voice as she added softly, "Goodbye, Hiruma-kun. There's... something terribly wrong with you, but I couldn't help liking you anyway."

She dropped his firework gun in the mud with a satisfying_ squelch, _turned around, and didn't look back as she walked away. He mumbled something as she left that she didn't hear, but she didn't stop walking, thinking that if he _really _cared, he'd come after her.

He didn't.

* * *

Mamori jammed her portable disk drive into the laptop provided by the school, and offered up a prayer to the gods of multimedia that her presentation wouldn't end up badly formatted, corrupted, blurry, or some other unthinkable thing.

In the past few years she had made an honest effort to become computer literate, but she couldn't exactly say she would ever be a genius when it came to using electronic technology. As good luck would have it, the little file transfer icon popped right up on the screen. After that, it was just a matter of selecting the slide-show option, and then she was off.

The best thing about an image-heavy presentation was that she didn't have to do a lot of speaking in general or much preparation beforehand. All she really had to do was explain what everyone was looking at, which was a fairly straightforward process as long as you had a good memory.

The line "Now, I hope that nobody minds that a great deal of these pictures are from the American football games," was spoken casually, but she'd been floored by the enthusiastic applause it produced. The din was amazing. She'd spoken to stadiums filled with ten times as many corporate employees as there were graduates in this room, but the ambition fueled ovations she'd gotten were far less satisfying than the genuine noise being made for her now. With that incentive, Mamori launched into the heart of her presentation.

She had taken special care to ensure that she had at least one action shot of everyone that had been on the team. Among her favourites were Yukimitsu's improbable touchdown against Shinryuuji, Monta's "Devil Back Fire" move that he'd used in several games after they had played the decisive game with Oujou, and one of Juumonji, Kuroki and Toganou using their patented "hip explosion" during the game against Amino (side-by-side with an explanatory picture of them learning it from Doburoku during that point in the Death March).

Then came Taki's flexible interceptions, Doburoku pouring what appeared to be sake on poor Sena's knees, and Hiruma managing to score in the Naga game with the fearsome Agon hanging off him like a crazed Medusa with a sex change. The photo of Komusubi using his strength to lift Mizumachi during the match against Poseidon seemed to go over well with his children. Mamori's commentary spilled out naturally and automatically with each slide, with pauses to allow for the occasional bouts of laughter, righteous yells or whistling catcalls from the crowd before moving on to the next.

Through careful cropping and selection, she'd managed to keep images of herself down to a minimum, although she had no choice but to include pictures of herself in costume in the group shots from certain special events. Her eyes lingered upon the images from Sports Day and the Christmas Bowl as she spoke, in part because she had to carefully craft her commentary to each picture, and partly because she wanted to keep herself from glancing around to see what reaction those memories elicited from a certain former quarterback. She purposely kept her gaze far from that corner of the room, knowing that if she looked at him, she wouldn't be able to continue.

Though she was successful, she knew his eyes were on her. _Well, he has nothing to complain about,_ she thought peevishly. She hadn't put in any pictures of him being sacked or missing tackles, even though she had plenty of those. _I included lots of pictures of your triumphs at all those games, and your brilliant victory at the end._ _Never mind that I helped!_

When the show concluded and she was done thanking everyone for watching (and that took about ten minutes because whenever she opened her mouth people started _clapping,_ and it was impossible to talk over that) Mamori returned to her seat. The lights came on, and people started milling about. Old synthetic pop tunes from their high school years filtered in through the speakers, but nobody danced.

Like a ninja, Ishimaru had appeared from out of nowhere, and was currently-unless Mamori was very mistaken- putting the moves on Suzuna.

"Oh, me? A bit of everything... voice acting, some secretarial work- you know, answering phones, filing... and you?"

"Believe it or not, I'm a corporate spy."

"No way!" Suzuna squealed, then looked embarrassed at her outburst.

"It's all right, most people react that way." Ishimaru shrugged, smiling diffidently. "I wear a suit and walk into a building... and I blend in. When I'm discovered, I can usually outrun security, so I've never been caught. I guess you could call it a gift."

"But that's so _dangerous!_ Are you thinking of retiring soon?"

"Oh, some day. I keep on telling myself, 'one more job...' but it never is my last job. I'll probably just keep on going until something...or someone makes me want to give it up."

_Oh, this is rich,_ Mamori found herself thinking sourly. The track star she'd known had been a kind and courteous person who had gotten along with everyone, and responsibly paid for his own school fees through a paper-route. For him to have a job like this and just go around blabbing about it was very unlike the Ishimaru she had known...and it didn't make any sense.

Yes, now that she thought about it, it seemed like the kind of story someone would tell in order to trick someone into going to bed with them! The idea of _that _happening to Suzuna filled her with an avenging fire that dissolved her earlier nervousness at being back in this place. If a certain someone thought a few well-placed lies were all that was needed to get this person into her friend's pants, they were _sorely_ mistaken!

After glaring at the oblivious Ishimaru for awhile, Mamori turned her attention to Kurita.

He was being entreated to participate in an arm-wrestling tourney with Komusubi, Juumonji and Toganou. Kurita was reluctant, and Mamori eventually tired of watching his shy attempts to shoo his friends away.

"Don't let your new weight take away your confidence, Kurita-kun!" She encouraged , as his challengers turned to stare at her. "You can take all three of them, no problem! In fact, let's go right now, I'd like to watch you!"

"Hah?"

"_Haaah?"  
_

There was a resounding silence.

"Um, yes." Mamori said, after a few awkward moments had gone by. "Let's clear a space over there." She nodded to an empty table that just happened to be closer to Hiruma than they were now. And sensing that Suzuna was getting a little too much face-time with a certain old track star, she added, "Ishimaru-kun, you come along too."

"I...what?"

"You're going to be officiating, because you're an impartial party." Mamori told him wryly. "That includes taking bets."

"Hah?"

"_Haah?"_

There was another gap of silence, in which Mamori wondered if this was how it had been for the two remaining Hah-Hah brothers all night. She certainly hoped not. It was really starting to get quite depressing.

* * *

No sooner had the betting started than a certain presence could be felt, coming closer. Mamori refused to turn around, telling herself that this was simply payback for his sikking the poor, impressionable Ishimaru on a besotted Suzuna. Honestly, if the two of them liked one another they should just be themselves! Preying on the man's insecurities was every bit as horrible as say, shaming Kurita into a number of arm-wrestling matches and then encouraging others to wager cash on the results.

She tried to hide it, but it was hard not to look the slightest bit smug when the demonic man arrived and coughed into his hand meaningfully. _You bait me and I'll bait you,_ she reasoned peevishly. _You're not the only one who knows how to manipulate others._

But before she could say anything, a certain bald-headed professor appeared in front of her, horsing from foot to foot nervously and eyeing her with purpose.

"Smith-san," he said quietly.

Mamori flinched. She didn't know how he knew her married name, but she corrected the use of it. "I'll be going back to the old one soon enough," she admitted carefully.

There was a flicker of eye movement towards the ring on her finger, and then back to her face. Always observant, always decorous, number sixteen. "I understand you have been living in New York with your... family," he amended quickly, somehow aware of a pair of malevolent eyes on him, but standing his ground regardless. "Just out of interest, have you been paying attention to the new women's teams in the NFL? I understand it has been more popular these past few years..."

"I... can't say I have." Mamori grimaced- she hated to admit that in the end, women were the 'weaker sex,' but some biological facts couldn't be contested. "And how are you?" She said, by way of altering the topic and perhaps, excusing him, because the glare boring into the back of his head was getting more ferocious by the second.

"Oh, well. I can't complain. It's just, there is a young lady, who..." For the first time, he seemed to notice the demon breathing down his neck. "Well, please excuse me. I assume you two have a lot to talk about... in fact, I'm quite sure of it."

Both the ex-quarterback and the manager frowned as the mostly-bald scientist made his awkward escape.

"Fucking manager." He said by way of greeting. "The hell was the fucking baldy asking you about?"

"Womens' football, I think?"

"Heeeh? Aren't you a bit old for that?"

Mamori ignored the implied insult. "I'm not really sure... maybe he thought I cared because I live in New York." She replied. "To be honest, I don't even follow the women's leagues. Call me old fashioned, but it just feels a bit backwards to me."

But something in Yukimitsu's manner just now- and his tone of voice, too, made her wonder. Was her friend just trying to make conversation, or was there something more...? No, it didn't make any sense. Best to just forget it.

Hiruma narrowed his eyes at Yukimitsu's retreating back. He seemed to be thinking, too. "So. I hear you're still a fucking manager. And I can see you're still eating too many of those fucking sweets. I shoulda figured, since they say 76 percent of Americans are overweight."

Now _that_ she could not ignore. Perhaps by Asian standards she was big, but she was a quarter caucasian after all and... ooh, she couldn't believe she'd been so nervous and anxious before! She'd forgotten the effect Hiruma had on her... nobody in this world could make her more _mad._

"Well," she said, reaching for the most insulting thing she could say and then landing on it in an instant- but did she dare? (Yes, she did.) "For my part, I'm surprised you still look like a contender for Japan's Most Metrosexual small-time crook."

There was the tinkling of broken glass as someone dropped their cup. Mamori had a distant sense of all conversations close to them coming to an abrupt halt. An expectant hush filled the atmosphere.

Hiruma's ears twitched, and he favoured her with an open grin that was as much a warning as it was a challenge. "I'll have you know," he offered in clipped tones, "that this 'look' is considered 'punk', and it's intimidating as hell to a lot of people."

Mamori felt a chill run through her, and did her best to ignore it. "Oh, I'm sure it has," she said. She gave him an open and very deliberate elevator stare, starting at his face and trailing her gaze down to his feet and back up again, as if he were a piece of choice meat on display. It was a move that American guys usually pulled on girls in clubs, and one that she hated, but found it useful to abuse now. "You know, you really are a very pretty man, Hiruma-kun. Which is why I hate to tell you that in New York, that look of yours would be considered totally ga-"

"It's fucking hardcore!"

Hiruma's voice cracked as he interrupted, and Mamori felt triumphant at having rattled his cage. "Sorry, but no. Two years ago I went to Canada to be the matron of honour in Shin and Sena's wedding. And I'd have to say that compared to them or _any_ of their friends--"

There was a flare of anger in the demon's eyes, and Mamori instantly knew that she'd pushed him too far. The next moment the gun was out, and everyone was ducking for cover. With an instinct born of past experience, she grabbed an empty serving platter from the table and held it up just in time to deflect the random sprays of bullets.

She'd expected the sound and the rage, but she hadn't been counting on the pressure that came with actual ammunition, or the way her wrist snapped back with the recoil. When the barrage ended, she dropped the platter to inspect her hand and wrist for injuries, then picked it back up to stare at the _real_ bullets that were now firmly embedded in the sterling silver. Of course, it made sense that Hiruma would be using live rounds now, and not the realistic-looking rubber bullets with powder caps that he'd used most of the time during practice. _I take it back, _she thought sadly, while gazing at the damaged serving tray. _You have changed. _

She managed to find her voice, and forced herself to scowl as she said, "You're going to be _paying_ for that, Hiruma."

"What's the matter?" He scoffed. "Can't afford it yourself?

"Of course I can, but _I'm_ not the one who _wrecked _it!"

"Funny, I don't remember holding the tray."

"HIRUMA! If I hadn't done that, you would have shot Ishimaru!"

"He would've ducked."

"I... don't know if I could have, in time..."

"Nobody asked you, fucking track star! And as for you, fucking manager, don't you think you need a bigger size shirt?"

Now it was Mamori's turn to splutter. "I beg your pardon?"

Hiruma gestured at her cleavage. "You're practically bursting out of that thing. You don't dress like that all the time, do you? It makes you look like some kinda prost-"

"I will have you know that I am the Vice President of one of the largest corporations in North America!"

"That sells what, pornography?"

"We manufacture a number of feminine hygiene products-"

"You mean you sell fucking _tampons_?"

"That... is just one example-"

"YA-HA! You sell fucking objects that cause toxic shock syndrome! Good _JOB_, fucking manager!"

A cheer drowned out Mamori's retort. Now that Hiruma had put down his gun, the arm-wrestling tournament had resumed. Kurita was currently winning, proving in the process that his healthier, still-slightly-chubby-but-by-all-means-no-longer-mountainous frame had retained most of the muscle although the girth was lost. Another cheer went up as he slammed Juumonji's arm down against the table and kept it there. Ishimaru counted blandly while Toganou stood behind muttering and massaging his own bicep. It looked like the matches were done, until the very person Kurita had been avoiding all evening, Omosadake, approached the table and demanded one for the honor of someone who had not betrayed the lifestyle of the sumo.

Mamori had recovered enough from Hiruma's insults to turn away from him as she urged her old friend to take the challenge. As Kurita accepted with reluctance and they began the match, Mamori positioned herself to cheer him on to what looked to be certain victory.

It was a move that proved useless. The kind-hearted Kurita, after reading the desperation in the losing Omosadake's features, relented about five minutes into the contest and let the shorter, fatter man win. This kindness did not please Omosadake, who rose to his feet and ranted at his former friend, saying what a shame and a cheat he was, and how his wife made him take the line of weight-loss products Kurita was selling on television, and that they didn't work...

It was right in the midst of all this sputtering and recrimination that Omosadake clutched at his heart. A moment later, he had keeled over.

Kurita was the first to react. "Hooee! Someone call an ambulance!"

Hiruma whipped out a cell phone. "Nice work, fucking manager. You just killed the fucking sumo."


End file.
